


Gib Mir Kraft

by jane_potter



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-18
Updated: 2009-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the surface, there's always Alfred smirking and disapproving and being British, but there's none of the agony and fear. He really does treat Bruce as a son, yet every time, despite the pain, Alfred remains stoic as his only family goes out into the city and ruins himself night after night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gib Mir Kraft

**Author's Note:**

> Summary by lady_bathos, aka beautifulsilversilence, whose comments are, as always, dead on the mark. Also written for a prompt at the Batman Kink Meme, although it's definitely not kinky or anything... I guess you could see a pairing here if you put on your slash-goggles. O_o

The balm smells of menthol and eucalyptus, smooth and oily between Alfred's palms. Bruce sits on a bar stool in front of him, slumped shirtless over the kitchen island in a state of near collapse. God knows Alfred sees this boy's back often enough-- sometimes it seems like he's helpless to do nothing but watch from behind as Bruce rushes off to the next emergency and its accompanying set of bruises and nightmares-- but this is a remarkably rare view, and a bitter one.  


Scars. So many of them, ugly and knotted on these powerful, broken young shoulders.

It seems like there's not a single square inch of unmarked skin beneath Alfred's palms as he sets to work, businesslike but gentle, kneading the balm into Bruce's back. The menthol burns cold against feverish flesh, still damp from the shower that washed away this latest night's grime. Scar tissue is slippery under his fingers, weirdly smooth. He's been ravaged, this boy, this body.

"Know your limits, Master Bruce," Alfred says quietly. It's advice that he's given before, not once or twice but countless times, and Bruce barely stirs.

The adrenaline must have let him down hard, brutally so, for him to have returned to the Manor so early in the night, with nearly three hours of darkness left. He's beaten purple and blue, the cruel outline of each individual Kevlar plate stamped into his flesh. Alfred's going to have to get the explanation for this out of Bruce-- but later.

His hands pressing firmly, he massages down the curve of Bruce's spine. At one point Bruce flinches violently; Alfred gentles immediately but doesn't leave it alone, soothing the ache with tender circles until Bruce relaxes again, the knot of tension eased. His muscles tremor and ripple beneath Alfred's hands, the barest flicker of power the quiescent form of a predator at rest: idle but never truly immobile, and never, _never_ fangless.

Alfred reapplies the balm to his hands, and Bruce shudders at the fresh chill. He's nearly asleep, groaning very faintly on occasion. Here and there, Alfred has to avoid the rough scratch of sutures that interrupt the scar-smooth mutilation. One of Bruce's healing wounds ripped open at one point that night, tore so widely that Alfred had to add five more stitches to close the new split.

Alfred would find the sight of these marks unbearable if he didn't know that scar tissue has no nerve endings. At least each old wound dulls Bruce that much more to each successive one.

 _Know your limits_.

He doesn't say this because he's afraid Bruce will push himself too far, no. The boy has had some of these scars since before Batman, and they're proof enough that whatever happened those seven years, he's a survivor. Alfred has known this since he saw Bruce come walking out of the foothills of Tibet covered in mud and rags, windburned and battered and knife-edged thin. He tells Bruce to endure because he knows that whatever the boy can't take, his monster can. Bruce has surpassed and smashed all expectations-- he's his father's son, and his city's champion, and his own worst nightmare, so no, _know your limits_ is certainly not said because Alfred doubts him.

It's because a man that has no limits is a god--

Alfred trails his fingertips regretfully over the scarred muscle of Bruce's shoulder and gets a low, drowsy moan in reply, something that could be either gratitude or pain.

\--and everybody knows that gods are untouchable.


End file.
